


Hours of the Wolf

by comradeocean



Series: songs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comradeocean/pseuds/comradeocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya and Sansa-centric companion piece to <a href="http://http://archiveofourown.org/works/436396">Ballad of the Blacksmith Prince</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hours of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elephant_eyelash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephant_eyelash/gifts).



=====  
 **Afternoon** :  
 _How it annoyed me when Robinson started what he had or hadn't objections to! I stopped crying. I said, "Your objections aren't in question."_  
=====

Sansa took her time with the scrubbing brush, running it back and forth over Arya's knees, then switching to a washcloth to sluice water up and down her legs. "You must have hated baths once. Always running away from the Septa." 

She called to Sorcha, the serving girl, for more hot water.

Arya's eyes were closed, her face expressionless, but now and then she hummed softly under her breath.

When Sansa upturned the bucket, giving Arya's hair a final rinse with what was left in it, Arya finally spoke. She sounded funny, half-spluttering and with her nosed pinched between her fingers to keep out the water.

"Do you dream about her? Running, howling." She bit her lower lip. "Killing." She grimaced, shook water off her head. "I don't know where Nymeria is, and I miss her. But Lady is not anywhere. Do you miss missing her?"

Sansa dropped the bucket and wrapped both arms around Arya, not minding that she got a nose full of slippery wet hair.

"Do you remember his name? That boy?" Arya babbled on, dripping on both of them. "I got a chance to avenge him once, Mycah, and after that, when it didn't work out, I tried and tried to remember his face. I kept so many names, but forgot all the faces. They went hazy. But it worked, didn't it? Joffrey and the rest of them. The liars."

"Sorry about Joffrey," Sansa whispered.

"Sorry about Lady," Arya whispered back. "And that dress."

"You thought you could sew me a new one."

"I will! You'd be shocked at what I learned to do with a needle in Braavos."

Sansa reflexively stole a glance under the tub at the row of knives Arya had neatly shed in the process of undressing. And before she knew it, there were squirts of water raining down on her.  

"Nosying about in another lady's business, Sansa? How unladylike."

What else was there to do but splash back?

\---

The light was fading fast by the time Sansa had Arya seated before her in front of the looking glass, both of them dry and dressed again. Rising and falling from outside in the courtyard was the unmistakable hubbub of merrymaking that preceded large feasts.

"Aunt Lysa wore much powder on her face," Sansa said conversationally. "I was there when she said her vows with Littlefinger." She began to plait Arya's long hair in a single braid. "It was under a sky-blue canopy, with the sun sinking in the west." 

Arya's lips thinned as she clenched her fists. "Littlefinger." 

"It's ghastly," Sansa continued. "the smell and colour of it. The eunuch wore it too, soft and chalky. But you understand Arya, how dreadful it can be to go about with nothing on your face so that everyone can see what's written on it."

She smiled encouragingly as Arya's eyes met hers in the mirror, "We're lucky we do not need to resort to powder any more."

Arya looked back at her, uncertain but with a stubborn set to her jaw.

"We will go. We will dance. And everything will go on as before. It's just another name day."

"Just another name day," Arya repeated after her, nodding.

Sansa finished braiding and tied a ribbon to the end. She inspected her work and gave Arya a soft kiss on the top of her head. "Perfect. I'm going to check the kitchens, but I will be waiting for you outside the great hall."

She paused before opening the door.

"They should never have stolen your blacksmith and they should never have given him to me."

"It doesn't matter." Arya's voice had gone a bit wobbly. "I'm just sorry everything got wrecked. It could have been like one of your songs."

"Nonsense, Arya, Winterfell _is_  my song." 

She gently closed the door behind her and left.

=====  
 **Evening** :  
 _So these fingertips, they'll never run through your skin_  
 _Those bright blue eyes can only meet me across a room_  
 _filled with people that are less important that you_  
 _Because you love, love, love, when you know I can't love_  
 _so I think it's best we both forget, before we dwell on it_  
=====

The North needs a feast, and so the young queen, in honour of her little sister, throws one together. It makes sense, the Starks being the ones in high winter with the responsibility of keeping the night and the cold at bay. Two moons ago, Arya had returned victorious from a hunt with the Mormont girls and the men. They had slain an auroch, a feat not seen in generations. And with her name day just around the corner, there was no longer any excuse not to open the halls of Winterfell to the bannermen, the smallfolk from miles around, the singers and knights.

King Stannis and Lord Snow, the Commander of the Night's Watch, travels south from the Wall for the occasion.

With Gendry behind her, Sansa greets Jon with tight hug; the King with a deep curtsey and an offer to settle his travelling party in the guest quarters. 

Stannis waves aside the suggestion. "Lord Snow will show Lady Selyse and Lady Shireen to their rooms. He knows this place well enough, does he not?"

Jon tips his head in a sullen nod. 

Stannis scowls when Jon makes no move. "Well, see to it now then, Lord Snow. You go with them as well, Ser Gendry."   

"We'll be right back, Lady Sansa." Jon stalks off with Gendry close behind him.

Stannis motions to a figure swaddled in furs behind him. "Where is Lady Arya? I need the both of you to audience with Yiskah. She is a soothsayer from beyond the Wall."

"If it does not offend Your Grace, I think it best if Lady Yiskah were to take her leave as well. It has been a long hard journey."

Stannis tightens his mouth, his jaw working silently. 

Sansa smoothly continues, "Lady Arya's feast has already been delayed for your arrival. The evening grows dark and the Northern Lords will not be pleased to be kept longer still from their meal."

Lady Yiskah peers up at her, "Do you not want your foretelling, girl?"

"I expect it will come to me, my lady, whether I want it or not," Sansa replies. "But as host of Winterfell, I do prefer my guests to be well-rested and at their own pleasure, soothsayers and otherwise."

"You wear your hair well, kissed by fire," Yiskah mutters appraisingly.

"You are too kind, my lady. Lord Snow tells me the free folk know it as sign of good fortune."

"Aye, t'is. Here, why don't I make the three o' us all happy." 

Quick as a wink, Yiskah reaches out and plucked a hair from Sansa's head. "There's some who can't do without ceremony." She glances at Stannis. "But I do mine quick 'n' easy."

"Here's the first." She wraps the hair a few times around her fist and takes a sniff.

"So long as a Stark sits in Winterfell, it will not fall." Stannis begins to object but she raises an arm and silences him.

"Your sadnesses are long, but they grow less lonely. Put away your childish things and you will be less lonely still. Ask the Trees for forgiveness, not your sister. Follow the Trees' laws, and not those of men."

"Nothing else about The Others?" King Stannis looks disappointed.

"This ain't an exact art." Yiskah shrugs her shoulders and begins to amble away, but then stops in her tracks. 

"Hold on, I've got an inkling of something else."

She rubs the strand of hair between her fingers slowly.

"Something very important will happen at this feast. Something that means a great deal to the Lady of Winterfell. It has served you well over the years. It is yours but you will not be fulfilled, not until the end of your days. Yellow are its grains and yellow are its skins. Miss it tonight and it will be your folly."

Stannis looks confused as she feels, unsure about what to make of this last prophecy.

"Well, go on, Sansa." 

Sansa turns around. She had not heard Arya's arrival. 

"You heard the soothsayer - there's going to be lemoncakes at the feast!" Arya bobs quickly in the direction of Stannis and runs away, calling quickly over her shoulder. "Pardons, Your Grace. Welcome back to Winterfell. I'm off to find Jon."

\---

At first it's fun. Sansa leads the first dance with Gendry while Arya and Lyanna compare their throwing knives for the benefit of the gaggle of squires surrounding them, green and wide-eyed as anything.

In time, Sansa drags Arya to dance and she complies, twirling up and down the hall and barging into people, everyone ecstatic to have a turn with the name day girl - guardsmen, Jon, serving ladies, the miller's sons, Sansa, the occassional lord.

But then the children leave as the evening goes on. The working men and women of the castle, the smallfolk, they all retire to their cups. The music grows quieter, sweeter. And lord after lord crowds around Arya until she challenges the lot of them to melee in the yard and makes for the direction of the garrisons. Jon shouts and they leave her alone after that.

Later still, Sansa spies Arya glowering at the remaining dancers, hollow-eyed and nursing a tankard of mead. Sansa gestures to the west alcove and steers her behind the tapestries. 

Several lifetimes ago, they used to hide here on feast days after being exiled to bed. Sansa and her friend Jeyne, admiring the ladies and knights who danced late in to the night. Rickon and Bran and Arya, dangling out the window to watch squires and serving boys scuffling in the courtyard below. Jon and Robb, sneaking plates of lemoncakes for them before running off to rejoin the festivities. 

"Everyone wants to dance with him, because they think he's some kind of joke. Or a stupid magical prince blessed by the Red God."

Sansa already had a lot of wine, but she impulsively grabs Arya's mead and steals a sip. "Would I be the princess then? Melisandre would make us ride dragons."

Arya groans. "Can you imagine Gendry on a dragon? Even you're better on a horse than him."

"It would fly in circles because he only steers with his right arm."

"It gets so confused it crashes into Dragonstone and turns it to ruins," Arya says with relish.

"It melts the Wall!"

"And Jon will be so upset. But they can only stand there, grinding their teeth together."

"It mistakes Ghost for a Wight!"

They are both slightly hysterical. 

"Winterfell burns down!" Arya shouts. 

"Again!"

Somehow, they laugh and laugh, spinning each other in a circle, spinning spinning until -

"Might I step in, m'lady?"

Arya lets go of Sansa's arms with a start but Gendry stops her from leaving, resting a hand on her shoulder. "And have the honour of a dance with my good sister on her name day."

"If it pleases my lord." Sansa inclines her head, expressionless, and lightly ducks out of the alcove.

"What are you doing?" Arya hisses.

"Just as I said, a dance with my - 

"Stop saying that!"

He clenches his jaw. "You danced with plenty lords tonight. 

"The men here want my hand. They want my claim, they want -"

"And I bet you and Lady Sansa leaves all of them wanting."

"What happens to them is none of your business." 

"Oh yes, the business of lords and ladies. Tradin' people back and forth. And it's the same with me betwixt the two o' you." 

"Don't ruin this, Gendry." 

Arya sounds furious, but he plows on stubbornly. 

"Stannis put me in this mummers' act. But you all just goes ahead and plays along with him, like bloody cloth mannikins. That's what thrones are, ain't it? Even up here, in the north. Is it worth that much to you? To Lord Snow? To Lady Sansa?"

"Sansa and Jon are my pack -" 

Gendry opens his mouth to interrupt again, but she clamps her hand over his lips so hard it must sting. 

"and so are you, stupid." She leans close, "When the snows fall and the white wind blow, the lone wolf dies." 

Even closer. "But the pack survives." 

She finishes, her face blank. 

She leaves.

=====  
 **Night** :  
 _long-fingered, slim, twisting waist  
_ _a inky maned animal, smooth and sinewy  
_ =====

Arya goes to him, and Gendry can have her, but only in pieces:

on her knees  
the teeth biting down on his shoulder  
his hands clutching at the trapezoid of her hips  
her mouth, lapping slick  
grunts  
sighs

She loves how he groans with his whole body, the way all of him strains towards her, starting at the business end of his cock.

She counts how often she can make him cry out her name. Then tucks the joy of it deep deep away, a secret she can't prod at. Where she can't accidentally reveal to herself the certain knowledge that hides beneath the effortlessness of his cries. The continual awareness of his crying the same name, but outside, in the castle, and thus all wrong, all ruining. 

\---

She finds him in the forge, like she knew she would. He is hopelessly drunk, both of them are. When she kneels, still wearing the dress from the feast, his face is expressionless. She tries to take him in her mouth, but he jerks away from her. Then turns his back to her.

"Do you want to fuck me in front of everyone? Did you wish it was our bedding in front of everyone and that it was me Jon and Harwin and the rest of them undressed?"

Gendry turns his head to glare at her."

"Or do you want me to go away, back to Braavos? To the Wall? Because I will, trust me. But I will take Sansa with me. She's mine, not your's."

"Guess I'm not in your pack so much any more. But it'll be all my fault then too. "

"Yes," she snaps back. "The fault of your filthy lusty traitor blood always running away and bringing dishonour to whoever you touch, wherever you go, hurting everyone one around you." 

He pushes her over, then. They tumble, roll on the floor. Laughing wildly as she grits her teeth, Arya spits every insult she can think of at him. "Bastard. Lowborn. Whoreson. Craven." It feels so good to be finally attacking something that is not herself. 

She finally gets on top of him, bends his legs sideways and launches all of her weight atop his arms so he can't throw her off.

"Don't you get it, you stupid bastard? I don't care. I don't care if it's your fault. Or anybody's fault. I don't care about your name. Or her name. I only want my name to be truly my own. And I don't even care what it is. When I'm with Sansa, when I'm with you, I have it back again. And no matter what Stannis or any of the others say or do, no one will take it away from me. Not even you, not all of it."

Exhausted, her hands loosen.  He gently untangles them from his arms, and touches her cheek. It is wet.

That night he cradles her in the cot, his body flushed against hers.

They sleep. 

=======END=======

**Author's Note:**

> Sources:
> 
>  **Afternoon** \- _Robinson_ , Muriel Spark. Full passage:
>
>> > 'I wish I had some make-up for my face,' I said, trying to think up and utter some concrete complain. And it was true that while I was on the island I greatly missed my make-up; I do not care to go about with nothing on my face so that everyone can see that is written on it. One of the day-dream fantasies that came to me like homesickness when I was on the island, was a make-up session. In my mind, I would be in my bedroom at home, performing the smoothing and creaming and painting of y face, going through the whole ritual of smoothing and patting, down to the last touch of mascara, taking my leisure, one hour, two, hours. Whereas in reality, at home, I make up my face rather quickly, and only when, rarely, the idea seizes me, do I make a morning of it
>
>> > 'We have some stuff among the salvage, said Robinson. 'You could use that, if you feel it absolutely necessary.'
>
>> > 'No fear,' I said, and started to cry again.
>
>> > 'It isn't absolutely necessary,' said Robinson.
>
>> > 'Is essential,' said Jimmie, 'for a lady that she adorn her visage with a bit of paint.'
>
>> > 'Simply and factually it isn't essential,' said Robinson, 'but I have no objection to it.'
>
>> > How it annoyed me when Robinson stated what he had or hadn't objections to! I stopped crying. I said, 'Your objections aren't in question.'
> 
>  **Evening** \- Of Monster and Men, [Love Love Love](http://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=of+monster+and+men+love+love+love&source=web&cd=1&ved=0CEcQtwIwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DZzsLa1g6iqY&ei=IzgOUNOeFOew6AGkloGgAQ&usg=AFQjCNHo0RawxTCnxtNFX8Y_laGaMQxLcQ)
> 
>  **Night** \- Stevie's lovely fic, [What Others Have](http://archiveofourown.org/works/457764?view_adult=true)  
> 


End file.
